


(you know) i've always got your back

by leetlebird



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Getting Together, Hockey, M/M, Pre-Canon, minor injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 14:09:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15050840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leetlebird/pseuds/leetlebird
Summary: Their second-line center skids to a stop next to Jack, sending ice flying. “Come on, Cap, are you gonna get this drill started or are you gonna talk to your girlfriend all day?”Jack smiles, the kind of smile that feels like it could flip over at any moment. “Sure, if you’re ready.”He doesn’t respond to the ‘girlfriend’ thing; he doesn’t think that would be smart. It’s not like he’s gay. He likes girls. He’s kissed girls, and he liked it, and he’s never kissed a boy.Sometimes he thinks about it. That doesn’t mean Parse is --Parse isn’t like that. So Jack doesn’t think about Parse like that.





	(you know) i've always got your back

**Author's Note:**

> for pimms week. today's prompt is "collide". title from "everything about you" by one direction. 
> 
> i love jackparse amen.

It’s game day, which means Jack gets up with the sun. He has to, if he wants to get everything done without getting so busy he panics.

So -- he shovels down his oatmeal and protein shake, stretches, goes for a run, knocks out half an hour of homework, does a couple sets of pushups and situps, and then heads back down to the basement to check on Parse. 

All of that is part of his game day tradition. So is finding Parse still sleeping. So is tickling Parse’s ribs until he’s begging Jack to get off him so he can pee. 

“Not yet,” Jack says, kneeling on Parse’s stomach right over where he’s pretty sure Kent’s bladder is. This might as well be part of their tradition, too. “Come on.”

“Fuck you.”

Jack waits.

“I’m not saying it.”

“Then get up.”

Parse struggles for a few seconds, half-hearted, and glares at Jack, just as half-hearted. “ _Ugh_. You’re stronger than me and I need to work out more.”

“And?”

Parse sighs. “Uncle.”

“There ya go,” Jack says, victorious as always. He rolls off of Parse and watches as he runs to the bathroom. “This wouldn’t happen if you’d take your own advice and work out more!” he yells, and he smiles as he hears Parse’s responding _Fuck you, Zimms_ from the other side of the bathroom door.

They eat breakfast together -- Jack’s second of the day, but who’s counting -- and Parse punishes him for awhile, pointedly giving Jack the silent treatment while he talks on and on to their billet sister, but Jack’s used to that. Jack amuses himself by scraping his fork loudly against his plate every time Parse tries to say something, until even Norah is fed up with them both.

“You need to grow up, and I’m twelve,” she says haughtily, then stomps out of the room.

Jack catches Parse’s eye, and then they’re both cracking up. “You’re an idiot,” Parse says, even though he’s the one who’s been dramatic all morning. 

Jack gives him the last waffle.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


Jack has never been able to decide if it’s a good thing or bad thing to be close to Parse during warm-ups. Because -- Parse is distracting. He has a weird amount of energy, and he doesn’t take things seriously enough, and when he distracts Jack it makes him feel like he isn’t doing a good job as captain.

But warming up with Parse is a tradition, and Jack isn’t messing with that.

Parse is bouncing a puck on his stick, skating backwards in a wide circle and muttering to himself. Probably counting out loud. 

Jack warms up near him, watching, and he waits until Parse drops the puck and starts over before he moves in. He bumps into Parse’s shoulder, a light check that catches him off-guard and sends the puck up in the air. Jack catches it easily, the black disappearing into his glove. 

“Asshole,” Parse says, even though his grin looks like it could split his face. He skates closer to Jack. “You fucked up my record.”

Jack could respond that Parse was only on five or so bounces that time, but he just shoves at Parse’s helmet instead. “Come on, we gotta lead some practice shots.” 

Their second-line center skids to a stop next to Jack, sending ice flying. “Come on, Cap, are you gonna get this drill started or are you gonna talk to your girlfriend all day?”

Jack smiles, the kind of smile that feels like it could flip over at any moment. “Sure, if you’re ready.”

He doesn’t respond to the ‘girlfriend’ thing; he doesn’t think that would be smart. It’s not like he’s gay. He likes girls. He’s kissed girls, and he liked it, and he’s never kissed a boy.

Sometimes he thinks about it. That doesn’t mean Parse is --

Parse isn’t like that. So Jack doesn’t think about Parse like that.

They end their warm-up time with a shooting drill. Jack practices his slapshot, which he thinks is getting harder every week, and their goalie cusses him out across the ice when it bounces off his leg.

“Don’t injure your own teammates, dumbass,” Parse says, right next to Jack, and then he grins. “Four corners!”

It shouldn’t surprise Jack anymore, the way Parse can snipe with such accuracy. Four pucks, one in each corner, like it’s easy. Jack’s pulse feels fluttery and quick under his skin.

God, he loves hockey.

He loves hockey, but once the game starts he doesn’t think of it in terms of love or hate, good or bad. There’s just the ragged, painful breath struggling out of his lungs, the burning in his legs, the way his brain zeroes in so he can barely see or hear the crowd -- just the ice, the puck, his coaches, his teammates. Just Parse, and the way he sets Jack up to score perfectly, and the goal horn. 

“Fuck yeah, Zimms,” Parse is saying in his ear, and Jack comes back down. His skates are on rough ice, a couple teammates are crowded around him in a quick hug, and when the celly is over Parse is still there, holding onto Jack’s elbow and beaming. 

“You were so good,” Parse says, and the words settle inside of Jack, like they were meant to be there because they _are_ , because he’s _good_ , and Jack goes into the next faceoff feeling like the most powerful guy on the ice.

He scores another one, then gets an assist. But not for Parse. 

He wishes the assist went to Parse. Parse deserves it. 

But the score is 3-0 with five minutes left in the third, and Parse still hasn’t scored. It’s probably not a big deal, because he already has a point off Jack’s goal and he scores plenty for himself throughout the season, and because they don’t _need_ another goal to win the game, but it’s all Jack can think about.

He gets back on the ice as their power play ends, a guy who tripped Parse coming out of the box for the other team. And that pisses Jack off too, because Parse deserves a goal, not to be intentionally tripped by some asshole who’s just being a bitch about losing. 

They have five minutes left and a three-goal lead. Jack knows he’ll get reamed by the coach later, but he allows himself one thing: he high-sticks the player who tripped Parse. 

It’s an easy call for the refs, and an unwelcome addition to Jack’s low PIM, but he doesn’t give a shit at this point. The asshole who hurt Parse goes to his bench, sits there with a towel against his lip for a minute. He’s ready to go back on the ice again for the second minute of the power play, but Jack made him bleed first.

Someone in the crowd bangs on the glass behind Jack’s head, and he grits his teeth and forces himself to stay focused on the game in front of him. He’s anxious despite their lead; he always is when they’re on a penalty kill. 

Like he always does, Jack distracts himself from his anxiety by focusing on Parse. He’s out there now on the second PK unit, and Jack gets a thrill through him every time he gets to see Parse pickpocket one of the opposing players. It’s a long shot, but Jack hopes Parse gets a breakaway. Those goals are always sexier -- sweeter -- than most, but it’s so much better shorthanded. 

Parse does get the puck, and Jack’s breath catches, but Parse just clears it.

Then Parse is sprawled out on the ice, curled up in a way that reminds Jack of a dying insect and Jack feels like he’s going to _puke_ , and the other player is skating away. A penalty is called, and Jack’s team is going to 4-on-4 before ending the game on the power play, but Jack is still spinning in his head, can’t hear anything, just an endless replay of Parse going down, the hard contact to Parse’s _head_ , the way he crumpled, so small in comparison to the guy who ran him over. 

There’s nothing Jack can do, not for another thirty-eight seconds, anyway, but he stands up as Parse struggles onto his hands and knees, then stays there. The way his shoulders are hunched looks wrong, and he isn’t getting up.

Jack is never taking a fucking penalty again, not if it means he can’t be on the ice with Parse to protect him. Their other teammates are just fucking _standing_ there, all nervous and unsure, none of them doing what they should be doing. What Jack _would_ be doing if he fucking could: kneeling by Parse, touching his shoulder, asking him if he’s okay. 

Jack feels like he’s going to explode, going to shake right out of the penalty box. 

Finally, one of the trainers helps Parse up. They skate off together, slow and careful, and the crowd applauds. Even the clapping sounds worried to Jack, but he doesn’t know if he can trust himself right now. He’s watching as Parse gingerly steps off the ice, as Parse is taken past the bench and through the tunnel.

Jack breathes, in out in out in out, and the black spots around the edges of his vision are gone by the time he skates back out on the ice. 

He has a different winger now. He hates that. He wants to skate with Parse. “Hey,” the kid says once he’s gotten a good look at Jack’s face. “It doesn’t help Parse if you end up right back in the box again, right?”

“Right,” Jack says, and as soon as the fucking asshole who hurt Parse has the puck, Jack checks him brutally, viciously. Legally.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


Jack rushes through the team line at the end of the game, barely giving their goalie a pat on the head. He’s the first off the ice, which has never happened before, but it’s okay because as soon as he makes it back to the locker room he sees Kenny.

“Are you okay?” Jack demands. He feels like his voice is very loud. His heart is beating too fast.

Kent looks tired, and he’s already changed into an old t-shirt and shorts instead of his uniform, and he’s sitting with one leg propped up, an ice pack on his hip and another on his shoulder, but he’s smiling. An exhausted smile, but warm and real for Jack nonetheless. “Been better, man. But it’s not as bad as it looks, they’re just making me ice my left side now since it was too late in the period for me to go back out anyway.”

Jack believes him, because Parse wouldn’t lie about an injury, but it doesn’t feel true. Kenny is hurt. He needed the trainer to help him off the ice. He’s small and important and Jack wasn’t there to protect him and he’s _hurt_.

“Parser!” someone yells. The rest of the team is arriving. “Dude, the fuck? Are you okay?”

Jack sits down on the bench right next to Parse, so close that he can feel Kenny’s warmth on his skin. He feels weird. Even after clearing things up with Parse, his heart is beating wildly, and it’s like he’s buzzing under his skin. He wants to touch Kenny to make sure he’s okay, that’s he’s still warm and real and okay like he always is.

So Jack touches Kenny’s arm, tentative, and he does feel warm. And Jack feels so right, so immediately at peace, that it’s like all the air has been sucked from the room. 

He is an idiot. An absolute fucking idiot. 

“You need anything from your locker?” he says to Kenny, quietly so no one else can hear. Now that he knows, now that he understands himself, it’s like a switch that he can’t turn off. 

He presses his fingers slightly into the skin on Kent’s arm, just to feel it. Just to let himself breathe again.

“Yeah, bud,” Kent says. He’s looking at Jack a little funny. “But I can get it. I’m not, like, damaged. I’ll skate at practice tomorrow and everything.” 

Jack moves his hand to Kenny’s back, where his body is warm and muscular through the fabric of his t-shirt. He doesn’t know what he’s checking for, but everything feels fine. Kenny is okay, he tells himself. It’s okay. “Yeah, but I can still get it. You should save your energy, you know?”

Parse rolls his eyes a little, but he leans in closer to Jack. “Yeah, fine, whatever. Can you grab my phone? Ooh, and my Jolly Ranchers.”

“You don’t need any Jolly Ranchers,” Jack says, but his heart is beating fast again. He stands up, and his hand feels empty and cold. He wants to sit back down, to find some reason for Kenny to sit in his lap like they do at parties.

God, he really is a fucking idiot.

“Please?” Kent says, and Jack feels a twist all the way through his heart. There’s nothing fair about Parse, from his light dusting of freckles to his horrible, adorable hair to those _eyes_ , but right now Jack thinks Kenny’s voice when he’s being fake-sweet to get what he wants might actually be the best and worst thing he’s ever experienced.

He tries to sound unaffected, even as he’s giving Kent everything he asked for. “I hope you get cavities and all your teeth fall out,” he says, putting the phone and bag of candy in Kenny’s hand. “And then you won’t be able to boss me around anymore because you won’t be able to talk.”

“Aw, you won’t think I’m cute when I’m all gummy?” Kenny asks, and Jack almost dies right there.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


The second they get back to their billet house, Jack locks himself in the bathroom.

Well, that’s not true. He takes Kenny’s ice packs and puts them in the freezer, then grabs a few new ones -- including one for his ribs, why the fuck didn’t he already have one there? -- and makes Kenny lie down on the couch. He grabs a blanket and extra pillow. He puts the TV remote directly in Kent’s hand so he doesn’t have to get up. 

Then Jack locks himself in the bathroom. He needs to think, and to get some distance between himself and his best friend. 

So -- Jack wants to have sex with Parse. With his teammate, and best friend, and roommate, and alternate captain. With Kent Parson.

That’s not even the worst thing, though. If that were the whole story, Jack wouldn’t even be panicking like this, sitting on the bathroom floor with his hands over his mouth and the lights off. If that were the whole story, Jack could just jerk off in the shower and think about Kent, and that would be all.

(Okay, so Jack’s already done that a couple times. It’s not like Parse’s the only straight guy Jack has fantasized about, and as long as he doesn’t make a habit of it he doesn’t feel too guilty.)

But that’s not the whole story.

Jack’s breathing comes faster. He wants -- he wants to take care of Parse. He wants to know everything about him, and to let Kent know most things about Jack, and to be able to touch him every day, everywhere, always touch him. He wants to climb into Kenny’s bed instead of his own, to kiss him and touch him and mess with his cowlick until Kent falls asleep.

He wants it so much he has to squeeze his eyes shut, so much that it makes him weak with how fast his heart is racing.

Faintly, he hears a bell ringing.

“What are you doing?” Jack hisses, once he’s calmed down and is ready to step out of the bathroom and into the basement, where Kent is still lying on the couch. “You’re gonna wake them up.”

Kent grins, and Jack feels fizzy and warm all over. He doesn’t ask where Parse got the stupid bell, because he knows that’s what Parse wants him to do.

Still, maybe Kenny was ringing that bell for a reason. “Do you need anything? You shouldn’t get up until tomorrow, so just let me know.”

Kent blushes. He gets all splotchy and uneven when he blushes, which Jack is pretty sure isn’t supposed to be attractive, but he wants to trail his fingers over Kenny’s face, feel the heat there, and keep touching him until --

Well. Jack doesn’t really know what would happen. Probably Parse would kick him away, because he isn’t gonna want another guy touching him like that. But in Jack’s daydream, Kenny would blush harder, until there’s nothing uneven about it, just red, and then Jack would keep touching him until Kent feels so safe that he settles back down, beautiful and soft-eyed just because of Jack’s hands.

“Uh, okay,” Kent says, and Jack feels his face get hot as he snaps back into reality. “I’m, like, thirsty? So if you wanna, I dunno, fill up my water bottle, that would be cool, but you really don’t have to.”

Jack zeroes in on the water bottle poking out from Kent’s school bag. It’s not his lucky water bottle, which must still be in Parse’s locker at the arena, but it’ll have to do. “No problem,” he says, and he grabs the water bottle and starts to climb the stairs.

“Hey, that’s okay, you can just fill it up in the bathroom,” Kent calls. “Zimms, come on, you don’t need to go upstairs --”

“Right,” Jack says, and keeps going. “Like you haven’t whined about the tap water down here tasting gross a thousand times.”

When Jack comes back downstairs with Kent’s water, Kent is doing stretches. 

“Parse,” Jack says. “No. You’re supposed to stay still so you can ice it.”

“ _You’re supposed to stay still so you can ice it,_ ” Kent says, in a voice that’s way more annoying than Jack’s. Hopefully. “What the fuck ever, man. I need to work on my glutes.”

Jack doesn’t know what to say to that, so he throws Parse’s water bottle at him. Kent yelps even though Jack misses on purpose.

It’s nice, actually. To know that they can still be best friends, even as Jack is distracted by the way Parse’s sweatpants bag around his hips.

“You can work on them all you like, but you’ll always have a flat ass,” Jack says, because that’s his role in this particular joke. “You could only achieve an ass like mine through superior genetics, and you already missed that boat.”

“That _bote_ ,” Parse says back, imitating Jack’s accent. Even though Jack’s pretty sure he doesn’t have an accent. “I got these sexy abs through working out, why can’t I get the -- ow. Why can’t I get the ass the same way?”

Jack doesn’t think he hid his flinch when Kent seemed to hurt himself, but he tries to soldier on anyway. “You’re fine the way you are.” _Great._ “Come on, that’s enough of that. Can I see your battle wound now?”

Parse grins immediately. “Hell yeah. But I think I need more ibuprofen first, hold on.”

Jack’s heart feels like it’s in his throat, and he’s not even sure why. “Cool.”

He waits a minute, and then he follows Kenny into the bathroom.

Kent is standing at the sink, looking at himself in the mirror. Jack thinks he might be doing something ridiculous, making kissy faces at himself or something, but Kent sees him coming and stops before Jack can really process it. 

“I saw that,” he says anyway, and Kent sticks his tongue out. 

They’re both quiet, then, as Kent looks down and fiddles with the lid on the bottle of ibuprofen. Jack’s eyes keep catching on the collar of Kent’s t-shirt, a cool green against the warmth of Kent’s skin.

“Can I see it?” he says abruptly, and clenches his jaw the second the words leave his mouth. He sounds like an idiot. “Uh --”

Kent rocks forward and backward, once, then shrugs. “Sure. Just, like, brace yourself. I don’t know if you can handle this gnarliness.”

Jack doesn’t know if he can handle seeing Kenny’s abs again, but he just smiles and shakes his head. Everything feels cloudy, too close and too far away at once.

Kent is taking off his shirt. Jack’s mouth is dry, and he rubs his hands against his elbows and tries to look normal. He’s seen Parse take off his shirt countless times -- they room together in the same basement, they change in the same locker room every day. 

Jack knew he wasn’t straight all of those other times. This -- this is different. This is when he knows he wants Kent. That he wants Kent in a way that goes beyond twenty seconds that get washed away in the shower. 

That’s gross. Jack knows he’s gross, he should stop -- 

Kent’s shirt is off. 

“Shit,” Jack says, because Kenny’s whole left side is an angry red. There’s a bruise under his collarbone from a nasty check a few days ago, and a yellow-green mark snaking its way over one hip, but those are old and Jack has seen them before. 

“You should see the other guy,” Kent jokes, and he twists to look at himself in the mirror. “Okay, that’s fucking sick. Kinda hurts here, though.” He gestures at his hip, where the red is even darker.

Jack feels a flare of anger, which he knows is pointless and probably just a way to deal with his attraction. He pushes it down. “Shit, you shouldn’t be walking around. I’m not letting you take breaks from icing that until you’re asleep, Parse.”

“Gross, don’t get all captain on me,” Kent says. He rolls his eyes, exaggerated and dramatic even as he’s laughing, and Jack’s heart feels too big.

He can’t help himself. He steps a little closer and touches the red mark on Kent’s side, where there’s bound to be a nasty bruise tomorrow. 

Kent makes a little sound, something surprised and maybe ticklish. “Jesus, Zimms. You a doctor now?”

“This is so fucked up,” Jack mumbles. He barely knows what he’s saying. He wishes he could make Kent feel better just by touching him. “Does it hurt?”

“Only down lower, like I said.” Kent squirms a little when Jack trails his hand down to Kent’s hip, but not exactly like he wants Jack to stop. At least, Jack doesn’t think so. “Yeah, there -- ow!”

“Sorry.” Jack feels like such a dick. He doesn’t know why he pressed down, doesn’t even remember making that decision. He tries to make it up to Parse by petting his skin, kind of, an apology that doesn’t use words. 

Kent wiggles his hips a little. “No worries,” he says. He has that smirk on his face, the one that makes Jack’s stomach feel like it’s falling. His eyes are sparkling with some joke. Jack thinks he knows the direction of the joke before Kent even opens his mouth. “I like it a little rough like that, haaa.”

Jack can feel his face burning, but he’s pretty sure Kent will just assume it’s because Jack is too virginial for that kind of thing. “Haha, okay.” He moves his hand up, following the red mark up to Kent’s shoulder. Jesus, this is awful. He knows Kent is small out there on the ice, and that his skill level makes him a target, but Jack’s stomach hurts over this. 

“Ooh, you’re making me tingle,” Kent teases, but Jack ignores him. He doesn’t know how to respond to stuff like that anyway. He’d probably give himself away.

There must be a better solution for this than cramming three ice packs against Kent’s side. This isn’t the kind of injury that needs heat, which would have been so much simpler. It would be easy to coax Kenny into a hot bath, but it’s not like he’d take a cold bath. Jack’s fingers tighten against Kenny’s ribs just picturing it, which is wrong. He shouldn’t picture it. 

He feels Kenny’s quick inhalation. “Zimms? What are you --?”

Jack’s hands are hot, or maybe that’s just Kent’s skin. He tries to think about hockey. “Are you sure you’ll be able to practice tomorrow, Kenny? You know some of the guys might check you, no matter what Coach says.” It’s hard to focus on tomorrow, though. Kent has always been beautiful to him, even when he tried to ignore it, and now he has a map of Kent’s body laid out in front of him, warm golden skin interrupted by marks of violence. He can feel Kent’s muscles moving under his fingers, can feel the sharp movement of Kenny’s lungs. 

Parse is quiet, standing totally still and looking up at Jack. The silence feels heavy -- maybe intimate, but Jack doesn’t have enough experience to be sure.

Jack suddenly feels lightheaded. He puts his free hand on the bathroom counter to steady himself. It’s cold, and there’s something about the cold rushing against his flattened palm that wakes him up a little, and he suddenly realizes how this looks.

“I -- yeah,” Jack stammers out, and even after he yanks his hand away he feels overexposed. It’s such an obvious mistake, and such an obvious reason for why he did it, and he wants a do-over.

He can’t deal with going forward without a do-over. He can’t deal with Parse knowing, with Parse being disgusted by him or pitying him or laughing at him.

Jack turns around and walks out of the bathroom, his vision going black at the edges. He doesn’t know where he’s going -- there’s nowhere in the house he can actually hide from Kent -- but he can’t be in that bathroom anymore. 

He ends up sitting on the stairs that lead up from the basement, staring at his knees and trying to focus on his breathing. The carpet is rough under his fingers, and he rubs his hand down hard to stay grounded in the moment. He can’t feel up his best friend and get caught having a panic attack in the same night. He’s just not doing it.

Then the door to the basement creaks open. Jack tenses up. “Go away,” he hisses as soon as Kent’s head pokes out. Which is not the right way to start this conversation, not if Jack wants to salvage the night and play it off like it was nothing, but he’s struggling to hold on right now. 

“No,” Kent says, because he sucks, and he comes over and sits down on the same step as Jack. He’s close, his whole side pressed up against Jack’s, and Jack’s heart starts racing even faster with how much he wants to lean in and bury his face in Parse’s neck. 

It’s not fair. 

“Look, I’m having a weird night,” Jack says, once he thinks he has it together enough to speak in complete sentences. “That’s all. It sucked seeing you get hurt. I don’t --”

Kent leans into his space, warm and still not wearing his shirt, and he kisses Jack.

Kent kisses Jack. 

Kent kisses _Jack_.

Jack doesn’t know how to kiss, but he has Kenny’s warm skin pressed up against him, Kenny’s lips on his, and for once he isn’t afraid of being a screw-up. He pulls Kent closer to him, trailing his fingers up and down Kent’s back, and feels Kent sigh into his mouth.

They have to stop kissing then, because Jack really doesn’t know what he’s doing and is literally gasping for breath, but Kent is blushing and smiling at him. Kent’s hands are shaking, and Jack doesn’t know if it’s because he’s nervous or excited, but he likes that he’s enough to make Parse feel something like that. 

“Sorry,” Kent mumbles, his lips still touching Jack, pressed up against his cheek. “I don’t know if that’s --”

Jack doesn’t let him finish apologizing. He moves to hold Kent’s face in his hands, careful but not exactly gentle, and feels his stomach swoop at the way Kenny goes quiet, eyes big, nervous but trusting, and Jack leans in to kiss Kent on the mouth. 

He still doesn’t know what he’s doing, so it’s probably a shitty kiss. But Kent looks happy when Jack pulls away, and that’s what matters. 

“Zimms,” Kenny says. He blinks up at Jack slowly. It’s sweet, so beautiful it’s almost awful, and this is what Jack is going to have to get used to. He can’t believe it.

Jack has always liked to look at the freckles on Parse’s nose. Now, for the first time, he touches them. 

“Zimms,” Kent says again. He sounds a little more breathless this time.

“Yeah?”

Kenny smiles up at him. “Can you get me another ice pack?”

Jack knocks their knees together. There’s a lot to think about, and he knows he’s most likely going to lie awake all night doing just that -- what this means for their friendship, how long Kent’s known he likes guys, how and when Kent figured out _Jack_ likes guys, how they’ll be able to keep this secret from their billet family -- but the one thing he’s not going to worry about is whether or not Parse really wants him. The answer to that question is staring him right in the face. 

“You’re such a little shit,” Jack murmurs, and he smiles when Kent laughs at him. “Fine. Just don’t get used to this. Tomorrow you’re getting your own ice packs, okay?”

“Right,” Parse says. Jack messes up Kent’s hair as he stands up, just for revenge, and he dashes up the stairs to get away before Parse can get him back.

When it’s time for bed, Kent seems surprised when Jack climbs into bed with him. And -- yeah. They’ve never done this before, apart from that one time Kent made Jack watch _Saw_ with him and then Jack needed someone to be near him in order to fall asleep. 

That was embarrassing, but this isn’t like that at all. Still, Kent’s obvious confusion doesn’t exactly make Jack feel great. “What?” he snaps, more irritable than he probably should be.

“Aren’t you going to be cold?” Kent asks. He holds up one of his ice packs.

Jack relaxes a little, but he still feels too tight under the skin. He’s still not sure if he’s being rejected. “It’s not like you’ll be replacing them all night. They’ll warm up pretty quick.”

“Yeah.” Kent shifts under the covers, obviously still uncomfortable. “Uh. So, why are you here?”

Jack feels cold all over, then hot. He tries to keep his face expressionless. “I don’t know. I can -- I’ll move over. It’s fine.”

“No, Zimms,” Kent says, and there’s something in his voice that makes Jack stop. “Please. I’m sorry. I just -- if you’re trying to get in here for sex right now, I just don’t feel like it. My whole side hurts, you know?”

Jack lies down immediately, his face brushing against the corner of Kent’s pillow. “No, Kenny, not like that. I just want to be here.” He’s a little insulted that Parse thinks he would even make an assumption like that, especially after he’s made it pretty damn clear how worried he is about Kent’s injury, but he can’t really focus on that. Parse is in bed next to him, not touching Jack yet but close enough that Jack can feel the warmth pouring off him, and looking shyer than Jack has ever seen him. 

He might as well say it. “I just want to be with you.”

Kent looks a little dazed. “Oh.” 

“Yeah.” Jack hides his face under the pillow; he can feel himself blushing. 

“I just want to be with you too,” Kent blurts out, twisting his fingers into the hem of Jack’s t-shirt, and Jack isn’t moving his face yet, but he’s pretty sure they’re both lying there blushing together. “So. You can stay.”

Jack presses his toes against Kenny’s leg. “Thanks.”

They’re quiet for awhile, bodies shifting so they might be cuddling. Jack can feel Kent’s face pressed up against his shoulder, and he moves to twine their legs a little more together. His heart is beating way too fast.

“Jack,” Kent whispers, and Jack finally lifts his head to look at him.

The lights are out, but the moonlight is reflected in Kent’s eyes. He’s right there, the first and best friend Jack’s ever had, the most beautiful and frustrating and exciting person he’s ever known, and he kissed Jack tonight. 

“I -- I think we should do speed drills tomorrow,” Kent says, and it’s so obviously not what he intended to say that Jack has to gather him a little closer. 

“Okay,” Jack whispers. His eyes are already getting heavy -- so much for staying up all night thinking. But Kent is warm and affectionate against him, and for once Jack is okay with taking some joy from life without questioning what he’s got to trade for it. “Go to sleep, Kenny.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Parse grumbles, and it’s the first night that Jack falls asleep first.


End file.
